


Allumer

by Cloudnine101



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Circus, Dark, Imagery, M/M, POV Second Person, Romance, Short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2015-04-18
Packaged: 2018-03-23 15:08:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3772846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cloudnine101/pseuds/Cloudnine101
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Sebastian Moran wrestles tigers. He is beautiful at it, too - but oh, is he always beautiful.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Allumer

**Author's Note:**

> Allumer: infinitive French verb; to ignite.

Sebastian Moran wrestles tigers. He is beautiful at it, too - but oh, is he always beautiful. He fights with fire, it seems - it courses through his blood, through his veins. He rolls beneath the flapping flags, ducking and dodging and diving - an inch out of reach. The claws slice; half-catch; dig into red lapels. You watch, breath bated - and still he rises, spreading his arms wide, daring it to approach.

 

What foolishness is this, you wonder? What can possess a man - a man with brains, and sullen charm, and a life left to lead - to fling himself into the ring, at such short notice? You know the answer, of course. You know it every time he touches you; every time his ringed fingers scrape your skin, lined with mud and rust.

 

The lights flicker; the lights flare. The creature bares its teeth, hovering close to him; pressing him downwards, with its heat. In the glow, they shine; sparks are spat, with cavalier ease. You lean closer - and yet, you cannot reach out, cannot tear it from him. It hurts, to be so close, and so near. Control is what you crave - and you cannot have, can only watch, and wait.

 

Sebastian spins away, graceful as ever, and - and, in a short, sharp motion, throws a loop around its neck, and pulls the cord tight. The beast gags, hisses, crawls - but it cannot reach him. As he turns, he bows, and grins. His eyes, as they meet yours, are mere shadows. You curl your hands around the fencing, and as the crowd roars, and stamps their feet, you say not a word.

 

When you are alone - finally, blissfully - you take. You take - force him against the wall, your hands in his hair - and he is pretty, so very, very pretty. You run a fingertip over his cheek; it dips in and out of the bone, and he tilts his head up, neck bared. So very, very pretty - so very, very pale. Fingers dig against your hips; they leave blotches. Against your lips, the greasepaint sticks. You find you do not care.

 

Afterwards, you lie, side by side; spent, and breathless, hot and heady and buzzing. His lids are sealed; his chest rises, and falls, and rises again. You press your war against it, and, silent, listen to his heartbeat. It is solid; regular; firm. Before, it must have been racing. Adrenaline. Lust. Fear. He is, truly, your finest creation.

 

That night, the circus burns.


End file.
